


Isolation

by a_belladonna



Category: Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort Sex, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Tintin is probably not as innocent as he looks here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_belladonna/pseuds/a_belladonna
Summary: There are different ways to cope with confinement and the knowledge of your impending death.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock/Tintin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 100





	Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Prisoners of the Sun, while Tintin and Haddock are awaiting their execution. Totally shameless PWP. No, really, don't try to look for a plot in this, haha. Despite Haddock's continued references to Tintin as "boy" or "lad", Tintin isn't meant to be underage - let's face it, Haddock would probably still refer to him as that when Tintin is 70. Beta read by Delphi - thank you so much!

**Isolation**

He's never thought this would be how he'd go. Executed by a group of Incas hiding in a hidden city far away in the Andes. It's the stuff of cheap pulp novels. He's certain he read one with a similiar plot once.  
But he's a sailor. He shouldn't even be here, so far inland.  
He's always thought that if (or when) he was going to die, it would be from a shipwreck, or an accident at sea. Washed overboard by a giant wave. Getting tangled in a line of rope. Striking a leftover mine from the Great War.  
Hell, even getting into a fight with the wrong guy in a bar somewhere always sounded more plausible than this.  
Not waiting for the execution day to come, sitting in a gilded cage.

But while he can feel desperation gnaw at him, Tintin has been keeping up a routine of morning excercises, reading that shredded piece of newspaper over and over again, and playing fetch with Milou.  
And that's what he's doing in this moment. Throwing the little leather ball across the room for Milou to run after it. Wrestling a bit with the dog over the ball when it has returned it, throwing it again, seemingly without a care in the world. Haddock envies him while sitting on his bed looking at the boy and the dog having what genuinely seems like a good time, despite their impending execution.  
Perhaps it's Tintin's youthful innocence that makes him so optimistic and able to laugh as the dog chases after a ball he didn't throw.

Haddock's not made of stone. Despite (or because?) of the knowledge that his life is going to end very soon he's felt a growing desire for sex the last couple of weeks. Or perhaps it's because there's no whisky in this prison to kill the lust. Or perhaps it's because he has a young man just within reach.  
A young man who's bending and stretching his body every morning, seemingly unaware of how inviting his ass looks during some of those excercises.  
Even though he turns away when Tintin undresses for the night, to give him some privacy, he did manage to catch a glimpse of his thighs, and, oh, a not bad bulge encased in his underwear, before Tintin climbed under the covers one evening. That glimpse seems to have become a loop for his inner eye, teasing him when he goes to sleep.  
The sleep that has only become lighter as the days pass. As if he doesn't want to miss anything because soon everything will be over.  


Tintin's apparently not made of stone either. One night Haddock woke up, hearing a muffled moan from the opposite bed. He was just about to ask the boy if he was having a nightmare when he heard the tell-tale rustle of sheets and noticed the movement of his right arm and how his right leg was bent to obscure what was happening.  
Not that he's a prude. It's not really possible to be that having sailed for as many years as he has. But he felt like an intruder anyway, which also felt silly. Another man having a discreet wank has happened before. He's lent a hand to some of those men – even the ones with their sweethearts' names tattooed on their arms. At some point a hand's a hand, even to them.  
But Tintin lying there, trying to not emit a sound, made his cheeks flush. Perhaps it was because his mind immediately was flooded with images of what it might look like, had Tintin been completely in private.  
The image of Tintin naked, writhing on the bed, his right hand on his cock, his left...yes, what about his left? No, it wouldn't be touching him _there_ , Tintin's too innocent for that. But perhaps playing with his nipples? Yes. He'd be pinching a nipple and biting his lower lip, moaning a little louder.  
Those thoughts had left him painfully hard and it had been a relief when he finally heard Tintin sigh softly, and the sound of him wiping off his hand before the boy turned on his side and quickly fell asleep.  
Then he could quietly, oh so quietly, bring himself off, which mercifully didn't take too long and also fall asleep, feeling like a dirty old man.

But all these thoughts about sex are as useless as anything else in here, and they certainly won't get them out of here.

He sighs and hides his face in his hands. He can't take it anymore. He's tried everything, thought of every possible way to escape but Tintin has just remained infuriatingly calm, saying "Trust me, Captain."  
Normally he'd trust the lad unquestioningly. But right now it seems he's lost his mind, poor boy.  
It's a damn shame it's happened right now. Couldn't he have waited until they'd saved Tournesol and returned home?  
He can feel it deep in his stomach. He doesn't want to die. He _doesn't_ want to die! He wants to live, he wants to get away from this cell. He wants to return home to Moulinsart and get out of this infernal place with its thin air and hostile animals.  
It isn't until he sees Tintin's legs moving into his line of vision that he notices that he's stopped playing with Milou.  
He flinches a little when he feels Tintin's hand on his shoulder. He hadn't expected that.  
The hand's rubbing little circles on his shoulder. He doesn't look up at Tintin.  
Instead he stares down at the floor and his feet. The tips of Tintin's shoes have become rather scuffed from all this mountain-climbing he suddenly notices. But in two days time it'll all not matter anymore, as Tintin and his shoes and everything will have burnt to a little pile of ashes.  
Tintin sighs softly and steps closer, embracing him. "I'm sorry I can't tell you about my plan, Captain," he says quietly. "But hang in there, we're soon free."  
He hears himself snort derisively. Free, yes, death will set you free as well, won't it?

It should be _him_ , experienced old sea lion, comforting a distressed youth in these bleak times. Not the other way around. Not the boy cradling his head in his arms while whispering "Just trust me, Captain".  
Tintin shifts a little and rubs his shoulder comfortingly as he sits on his thighs, straddling him. Tentatively he brushes his lips across Haddock's cheek in a featherlight kiss. And again, a little more boldly when Haddock doesn't move his head away.  
Embracing him, Tintin leans against him, their foreheads and noses touching. "I can’t tell you exactly what’s going to happen. But please, _please_ trust me."  
They're sitting like that for a while, their breathing almost in sync.

And then, just like that, Tintin leans forward and kisses him, a little clumsily. And all Haddock can do is return the kiss as Tintin grips him closer.  
He embraces the boy, who's lithe and slender. It feels perfect. And then his heart skips a beat as Tintin takes one of his hands and leads it under his jumper and shirt, across soft and warm skin.  
It felt like the boy was inexperienced, but now Haddock is less certain. Tintin lets go of Haddock's hand and instead embraces his neck and shoulders, kissing him deeper still while Haddock caresses the back underneath the clothes with one hand, the other dipping below the waistband.  
His lips are so soft, so intoxicating and Haddock just wants more of them and feels disappointed when Tintin breaks the kiss. But only for a moment before he realises it's because Tintin wants out of the shirt and jumper. He mirrors the action, removing his own jumper and undershirt.  
Tintin's torso is smooth and slender, yet muscular. He trails his fingertips over a scar on his ribs – someday he'll have to learn where that came from.  
He's acutely aware that that someday will have to be soon, and he pushes the thought away.  


Tintin pulls him into a kiss again and he savours the feeling of the boy's tongue against his own. If only it could last forever!  
He unbuttons Tintin's plusfours and slides both hands down the back, down to his ass, squeezing the buttocks, pulling him closer, feeling his clothed erection against his own.  
Tintin has let go of his mouth and is moaning against his neck, "Inside me, Captain, please. Fuck me, please, just fuck me" like it's a plea or a prayer.  


Then, apparently a bit impatient, he pushes himself off Haddock's lap and quickly pulls off his plusfours and socks, standing naked in front of him. Haddock lies back to better remove his own trousers and feels him tugging at the fabric. As soon as he's divested of the clothes Tintin crawls back on top of him, straddling him, kissing him, kissing him deeper than before, if that's at all possible. Haddock can feel their cocks rubbing against each other and digs his fingers into Tintin's buttocks, remembering the plea from before.  


"I-I don't have any lubrication," he manages to pant.  
Tintin crawls off him again and reaches under his own bed and pulls a little bottle out from under it.  
"Oil," he says.  
Haddock stares at it, disbelieving his own eyes. "Where'd you get that?" he asks, dumbfounded.  
"From our guards," Tintin answers as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "They did after all tell us that we could get whatever we needed."  
Haddock is less and less certain the boy is as innocent as he might look.  
Tintin takes Haddock's right hand and pours some of the oil on the index and middle fingers. The oil is cold from having been on the stone floor but warms up against his skin.  
"Come on," he says, almost purring.  


Haddock reaches down and carefully, so carefully, begins inserting one finger. Perhaps it's just bravado. Perhaps the boy is innocent after all. And even if he isn't. Haddock doesn't want to hurt him.  
He has his other arm around Tintin's shoulders while Tintin's supporting himself with both hands on Haddock's shoulders. Tintin's face is buried in Haddock's neck and he can feel Tintin's breath against it.  
Closing his eyes he focuses on inserting the other finger in Tintin's ass.  
Tintin's moaning now and grinding himself against Haddock's fingers. Still, Haddock takes his time preparing him, even as Tintin begins riding the fingers, rocking back and forth, his cock brushing against Haddock's and against his belly, seeking friction that is out of his reach.  
"Come on," he moans. "Please, Captain, more. Y-your cock, please."  
Hearing Tintin, polite, impeccable Tintin, right out begging for his cock, and in such vulgar terms too, sends more blood into Haddock's cock, making it throb.  
Oh, but he wants to. He wants to hear him lose control, he wants to fuck the boy senseless. But he doesn't want to inadvertedly hurt him in the process.  
"Just...just a moment," he pants, liberally coating his cock in the oil, feeling some of it running down the length and pooling at the base of it in his bush while a few drops trickles from the back of the cock down across his balls. The cool oil tickles his warm skin.  


And then he almost forgets to breathe as he sees Tintin lifting himself up and slowly, carefully impaling himself on the cock, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.  
"Yes," the boy sighs, again gripping Haddock's shoulders for support as he begins riding him, his hips gyrating.  
Haddock grips them tightly as he begins thrusting upwards, and the two of them soon settle into a rhythm.  


Tintin kisses him again, his tongue so soft and warm against his own. The way their tongues rub against each other almost mimics the rhythm with which they fuck and Haddock feels himself getting lost in the pleasure, losing track of time.  
Finally they have to part in order to breathe, and he takes the opportunity to tighten his grip on Tintin's buttocks, thrusting harder up into the tight ass. Sitting at the edge of the bed like this isn't the best position to really thrust deeply, but Tintin doesn't seem to mind. He once again buries his face in Haddock's neck and moans and whimpers at each thrust, his right hand stroking himself.  
And he stiffens, his fingers digging into Haddock's arm and his ass clenching around Haddock's cock as he comes, silently, his mouth open like an "o", his eyes screwed shut. Haddock feels the come splattering across his belly and notices the quickening of Tintin's breath.  


Then he lifts the boy and lays him on his back on his bed, his legs on Haddock's shoulders, thrusting into him, deep into him.  
He can feel he's close to coming and wills himself to look down at Tintin instead of just closing his eyes. He wants to take everything in. After all, if this is the last fuck in his life he wants to savour every second of it.  
Too soon, much too soon, he's coming, emptying himself in Tintin, wishing it could just go on forever, that they weren't going to die in a few days.  
He slumps a bit, trying not to collapse too heavily on Tintin, feeling his softening cock slide out of him. Tintin is looking up at him, running his fingertips over his arms and shoulders, through his hair. There's a hint of a smile on the boy's lips as he pulls him into a kiss.  
"We'll have to do that again, someday," he says, breaking the kiss.  
"But we're dead in two days' time," Haddock points out. Tintin presses a finger to his lips.  
"Just trust me, Captain."


End file.
